


We're Here, We're Queer, We're Getting Used To It

by Starlingthefool



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Polyamory, Sherlock Holmes Kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Holmes is a detective and Watson is a forensic pathologist. Holmes and Irene go undercover at a queer bar during London's Pride celebration. They're surprised to find a few familiar faces on the dance floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Here, We're Queer, We're Getting Used To It

"Do you have to do that here?" Watson asked, pausing in his examination of a John Doe's open chest cavity.

Holmes paused, fork full of lo mein hovering halfway to his mouth. "You're the one badgering me to gain weight. I thought you'd be happy to see me eating."

"Yes, but in the morgue? During an autopsy?"

"I'm out of splash range."

"Whatever. Keep eating, Holmes," Watson sighed, bending over and resuming his examination. "So, are you doing anything for the weekend?"

"Working," Holmes told the pathologist. He kept his eyes on his noodles, because otherwise they kept wanting to drift to the curve of Watson's ass, or the skin visible in the open neck of his scrubs.

"It's the Pride parade on Saturday, isn't it?"

Holmes shrugged, though he knew it was. "Not really my scene," he said. "Parades. Blech."

"I figured," Watson said. "Just thought I'd ask."

"You?"

"Mary and I have some plans," he said vaguely. "We might go out."

Holmes grunted, slurping up the last of his noodles. He had met Mary a few times, and had diagnosed her as a serial cheater and sexual risk-taker. An odd choice for Watson, who tended to go for wholesome girls whose hearts he would inevitably break. Despite that, they'd been together for four months, almost twice as long as Watson's last three relationships. Apparently, their sexual dysfunctions were well-matched. Bully for them.

Holmes stood, tossing the empty carton on the examination table next to the corpse. "Are you finished yet?"

Watson stretched and pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin. "No. But I'm ready to pause. You have the pictures?"

Holmes handed the file over. Watson spread out the photos of the newest victim – John Ngyuen, a twenty-three year old office worker – on an empty autopsy table. There'd been an upswing in violent assaults at gay bars in the last few months; three beatings in three different bars. Holmes had an inkling they were related. The patterns of the assault were too similar; young men lured out of the bars, and then beaten just outside. No deaths yet, but Holmes had a feeling it was only a matter of time.

"Bruises are the same size and in the same pattern. Left-handed fighter again. And the same size foot doing the kicking. Any DNA traces found on the vic?"

"Too many, actually," Holmes said, grimacing. "He'd been at the club a while. And he gave the same vague description. Tall guy, early thirties, leather coat."

"CCTV?"

"Nothing worthwhile. And there's never any cameras in the alley."

"That's worrying," Watson said, pointing to a gash on Ngyuen's forearm.

Holmes nodded. "Our gay basher has got himself a knife. Ngyuen says he pulled it, swiped at him with it, before they got interrupted."

Watson sighed. "Bloody hell."

"He's going to escalate."

Watson gave him a wry smile. "You'll track him down before then."

Holmes could count on Watson's support, even when he didn't deserve it. It annoyed Holmes to no end. If only Watson were more of an bastard, it would have been easier to forget that Holmes had wanted to fuck him practically from the day they met.

* * *

Holmes had a _thing_ for undercover work. He was good at it, naturally, but he sometimes got a little too enthusiastic. So when he and Irene had been assigned to work undercover at The Playground, one of Soho's more infamous queer bars, something in him had just said _fuck it_ and told the Inspector that he was dressing as a drag queen.

People didn't hit on grumpy, whiskery drag queens, for one thing. Not without an invitation. Holmes did not want to try and fend off some boy's drunken advances while keeping an eye on the scene for the perp. (Really. He didn't. Even if he hadn't gotten laid since dinosaurs roamed the earth.)

"You look like Julie Newmar with a hangover," Irene said when she was finished with his make-up. "I think it's the best we can hope for, Sher-cock."

"Piss off, Saddle-bags," Holmes replied, his personal endearment for Irene – the origin of which was shrouded in mystery and a lot of tequila. "Get me a drink, would you?"

"Why are you dressing like this, anyway? I know we're supposed to be undercover tonight, but I thought you liked to keep the cross-dressing to the bedroom."

Something about her tone had reminded him sharply of Watson, of the days before Mary, when they'd really only had each other. Well, each other and work. It had been enough.

"Sherlock?" she said, turning from his kitchen counter. Seeing his look, she said, "Why are you giving me the hairy eyeball?"

"'Hairy eyeball'? Is that an Americanism? How perfectly dreadful."

"God, you're already channeling Audrey Hepburn," she said, delivering his gin and tonic. "Seriously though, why drag?"

"Nobody expects a drag queen to be toting a baton and pepper spray in her purse."

Irene put her head back and laughed. "You can't have known many drag queens."

* * *

 _"RAH-RAH-AH-AH-AH  
RO-MA-RO-MA-MA  
WANT YOUR BAD ROMANCE."_

Holmes hated Lady Gaga. He hated most pop music, and therefore, most gay clubs. He didn't even particularly like "the gay community", regardless of whether he was technically part of the demographic. But then, he didn't like most communities of human beings, nor their individual members. Watson and Irene were about the only exceptions. Sometimes he wondered about the sanity of his choice to become a detective, protecting and serving people he'd usually avoid, given the choice.

Holmes watched Irene writhing on the dance floor. It was crowded, with people of every possible variation of gender, all dressed to the nines. Irene had borrowed his suspenders and a Calvin Klein tie, and had paired them with some gold lame pants and red gogo boots. Holmes had decided to hold down the bar. He nursed his drink, fended off any unwelcome advances with a few well-aimed barbs, and watched the dance floor like a hawk.

"Double Johnnie Walker," a familiar voice shouted next to him.

 _And a pint of lager,_ Holmes thought, heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his Adam's apple.

"And a pint of lager," John Watson said. Of all the bloody bars in Soho... Holmes couldn't help it, he had to turn and look. He was rewarded with the sight of his friend's bare chest, covered in sweat and glitter, and Watson's oft-admired ass clad in a pair of tight, black pants.

Watson glanced over at him as he was swallowing the Johnnie Walker. For a full second, Holmes almost believed Watson didn't recognize him. Then, just before he could breathe a sigh of relief, Watson's eyes were widening, and he was coughing and choking on his drink.

"Jesus FUCK."

"Is that any way to talk to a lady?" Holmes said primly.

"Holmes?"

"Actually, I'm going by 'Auntie Maimed' tonight."

Watson blinked, then shook his head. "What are you doing here, Holmes?"

"Working. What are you doing here? Nice glitter, by the way."

"...Dancing," Watson said after a moment, then gulped at his beer.

"Is that what they call it now?" Holmes said.

"The act of going onto a dance floor and moving your body? Generally, yes."

Holmes wondered how he could have possibly have missed seeing Watson on the dance floor. What a wasted opportunity.

 _"LOVE, LOVE, LOVE I WANT YOUR LOVE,"_ Lady Gaga demanded. Holmes shuddered.

"So," Holmes said. "Gay bars. Do you like cock now?"

"Holmes!"

"Or have you all along and are just completely closeted? And does that mean Mary is your beard? I knew there was something off there."

"She's my _girlfriend,_ Holmes. And she–"

"What did you tell her you were doing tonight? Working late? Studying up on the male anatomy?" If he sounded bitter, Holmes reasoned, it was only because he was remaining true to character.

"Hello, gorgeous," a rather familiar voice purred. "Going to introduce me, John?" Mary was dressed in one of Watson's porkpie hats, suspenders, and a very low-cut shirt. She looked like a combination of Michael Jackson and Rita Hayworth.

"We've already met, darling" Holmes said, in his Auntie Maimed voice. Then, in his normal one: "Hi, Mary."

"Holmes! My god, you look fanTASTic! I never even knew you did drag!"

"It's a new thing," Holmes said, put off by her enthusiasm and voluminous cleavage.

"Wow," Mary breathed. "Well, you look great! Your tits look fabulous, even with the chest hair."

Holmes nearly spat his drink out. "What are you doing here?" he asked, recovering.

"Dancing myself silly and drinking entirely too many cocktails. What does it look like?" It was then that Holmes noticed the small pin she wore on her top, a triangle with varying shades of purple, pink, and blue on it. The bisexual pride colors.

He looked at Watson and discovered, ah. A matching one on his pants. How interesting.

 _"ALL THE SINGLE LADIES! ALL THE SINGLE LADIES!"_ Beyoncé called, and Mary downed the rest of her drink. "Excuse me, I have to dance." She threw herself back into the fray of bodies on the dance floor, hands waving above her head.

"Fascinating," Holmes said, watching her grind against another woman.

"Stop it," Watson said. "You're using that voice."

"What voice?"

"That, that voice you get when something mysterious is going on."

"I'm certainly mystified. You seem to have an... unusual arrangement."

"Mary's an unusual girl. What are you even doing here?"

"I'm undercover. And that's a terribly awkward change of subject."

"Deep undercover, I assume," Watson said, ignoring him. "Where on earth did you find that get-up, anyway?"

"The dress and tights belong to Irene. The shoes were in Evidence, but nobody's going to miss them. Oh good god."

"Wha– oh. Irene is undercover too?"

"Supposedly." They watched as Mary and Irene ground against each other

"Is she wearing my tie?" Watson asked.

"My partner is dry-humping your girlfriend, and you want to know if that's your tie?"

"Is it?"

Mary's hands were tugging on the strip of blue silk. Irene's face was leaning in. "Maybe."

The two women were kissing, hands entwined in the borrowed ties and suspenders.

"Huh," Holmes said.

"Yeah," Watson said.

 _"YOU SPIN MY HEAD RIGHT ROUND, RIGHT ROUND,"_ Flo Rida chimed in.

"I need some air," Watson said.

"Um, yeah. Me too." Abandoning their drinks, they pushed their way through the mass of bodies to the alley door.

It was blessedly cool and quiet outside, the music muffled by the club's walls. They were alone in the alley. Holmes took a deep breath. The air was a myriad of smells: the heavy scent of tobacco, the tang of spilled booze, and the greasy smell of vomit; somewhere underneath it all, Holmes thought, he could smell the Thames.

Holmes pulled a packet of Lucky Strikes out of his sequined purse, lit two, and then handed one to Watson.

"Thanks."

They lapsed into an awkward silence, both of them smoking their Luckys.

"Are you... okay?" Holmes asked after a moment.

Watson looked at him. "It's very hard to take you seriously when you're wearing false eyelashes, you know."

"Oh, for fuck's sake–"

Watson laughed. "Have you got your flask with you?"

Holmes pulled it out of his purse, unscrewed it, and passed it over. "You didn't answer my question."

Watson took a long swallow, leaning against the brick wall and tipping his head back. "I'm fine. There's worse things in life than watching two hot girls make out on a dance floor."

"Even when one of them is your girlfriend?"

"Mary and I have a, an agreement. Anything goes tonight. But we have to go home together."

Holmes blinked slowly. His fake eyelashes felt extraordinarily heavy when he did that. "That is... interesting. What about my other question?"

Watson took another swallow. "Which question." There was no rising inflection on the end; a hint that Watson was not actually interested in hearing Holmes' answer.

That was understandable enough, given the nature of the conversation that Holmes was about to plunge into. "Since when do you like cock?"

Watson had been in the process of handing Holmes back his flask; the motion of his hand reversed just as Holmes reached to grab it, headed back in the direction of Watson's mouth. Holmes watched Watson's throat move as he swallowed, unable to look away: he noted the dusting of stubble, the beads of sweat, the line of the jaw. It was easier to look at Watson like that, in pieces.

Watson handed the half-empty flask back to Holmes, and stammered, " When I was a teenager, and, and, when I was in the army, but I haven't always– it was..."

"Complicated?" Holmes supplied.

"Exactly. But this," Watson said, gesturing at the triangle pin in his belt loop. "This isn't a, a fashion statement."

"Nor a gesture of solidarity, I presume, for your obviously bisexual girlfriend."

"No. Well, kinda that too. But not totally. I'm still... you know."

Holmes toasted him with the flask. "Congratulations, Watson, I think you just came out."

"I... did, didn't I?"

Holmes nodded, draining the last of the whisky out of the flask. Then, tossing the flask back in his purse, he did something uncharacteristically stupid and risky: he put his hand on Watson's jaw and kissed him. It was soft, just mouth against mouth, a shared breath, a question rather than a demand.

He felt Watson tense. _Here it comes,_ Holmes thought, _a shove and an angry question, or just a hand on my chest and a gentle letdown._ Fully aware he should stop before it came to that, Holmes' traitorous mouth still refused to leave Watson's slack, surprised one, and kept kissing him, and kissing him. Until Watson's hand did come up, grasping Holmes' shoulder.

"Sorry," Holmes said, instantly breaking away. He kept his eyes closed. "Sorry, I didn't mean–"

Watson pulled him back forward and then–

It was not a soft kiss. It was a hard-won fist-pumping triumphant _fuck yeah!_ of a kiss, and Holmes put every second of the last three years' desire into it, pushing Watson against the wall, hands roaming the expanse of bare skin in front of him.

A few minutes passed, both men rather blissfully unaware of it. Holmes eventually broke the kiss to breathe. He put his face in Watson's neck, inhaling the smell of cologne and sweat, and probably a few stray pieces of glitter.

"Wow," Watson breathed.

"Yeah," Holmes said. Three years, he thought. He'd wanted to do that for three years. It was almost as satisfying as he'd hoped it would be; it would have been utterly amazing if it weren't for the specter of Mary hanging over Holmes' head, her and Watson's arrangement notwithstanding. Also, his tights were riding up, and it was sort of distracting.

 _"BABY ARE YOU DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN?"_ Jay Sean asked, as the door slammed open. Two men hurried out, making for the shadows a little further down in the alley. _"DOOO-OOWN, DOOO-OOOWN, EVEN IF THE SKY IS FALLING–"_

Watson kicked the door shut, muffling the auto-pitched voice. His hands were on Holmes' hips, rubbing at the sharp planes of his bones, and the sensitive spots below them. Holmes looked down at the hands, sturdy doctor's hands; they looked so odd against the magenta sequins, but Holmes was prepared to let that go.

 _"DOOO-OOWN, DOOO-OOWN..."_ Jay Sean said again, muffled but still audible.

"Now there's an idea," Holmes said, grinding his hips against Watson's, enjoying the man's rough exhalation. He could feel Watson's cock, the hardness beneath the black denim. Fuck's sake, how many times had he dreamed of sucking Watson's cock? He felt himself hardening, thinking about it; not just thinking, planning, plotting even. He might only ever get one shot at this, and he would damn well make it count.  
He hitched up his dress and fell to his knees. His face was just about level with Watson's navel and the small spread of hair below it. Watson's hands were on his shoulders, and Holmes could feel the tremors running through them, the raw energy, the sparking nerves. Holmes pressed his open mouth to the skin of Watson's belly.

"Holmes, wait–"

"No," he mumbled against the skin. Stupid fucking button flies, did they purposely make them so difficult to undo? Was Levi Strauss conspiring with the homophobes to keep Holmes from sucking Watson's cock?

"But–"

"Shut up," Holmes said. He was not about to let Watson start thinking about what they were doing. It would never do. Thinking ruined sex; it turned a possibly rash decision into an inevitably regretful one.

Watson grabbed Holmes' shoulder, pushing him back. "Damn it, Holmes, stop for a second and listen."

Holmes looked up at Watson's face; the other man was looking further into the alley, the shadowed recesses. It was too dark to see, but Holmes heard the unmistakeable sound of someone getting the shit kicked out of them by someone else.

"Shut the fuck up," Holmes heard someone say quietly, then another thud.

"Fuck my life," Holmes muttered. Then, into the mic hidden in the collar of his dress, "Irene, peel yourself off the dance floor and get into the side alley this fucking minute. Our perp's here." He hoped she could hear him over the music.

"Is that–?" Watson asked.

"Stay here. Irene should be here in a second." Holmes said, pulling the telescoping baton and pepper spray out of his garter belt. Then, after indulging himself in one last open-mouthed taste of Watson's sweat-damp skin, he stood and strode further down the alley.

After a few steps, he could see the shadowy figures of the two men who had hurried out the door a few moments ago. One was curled on the ground. The other was standing above him, pulling his foot back to kick.

"Excuse me!" Holmes shouted. "Do you realize how awful your timing is?"

The standing man flinched, then turned to run. Of course, at his back was a brick wall, eight feet high at a guess. Good god, why were criminals such morons?

"You want some of this?" the perp asked, facing Holmes again. Only now – oh joy – he had a knife in his hand, a six-inch blade reflecting streaks of neon light.

"Actual, I wanted some of that," Holmes said, motioning down the alley, Auntie Maimed attitude coming out . "But no, you had to come to my bar to find a poof to kick to death."

"Fuck off or I'll cut you, cunt."

The door opened behind him, spilling out the grating sounds of yet another Lady Gaga song; that would be Irene. Holmes flicked open his baton. "I'm with the police. Drop the knife," he said.

Of course, the perp did no such thing. He rushed at Holmes like the fucking imbecilic psychopath he was, thrusting his knife at Holmes' ribs. Holmes dodged him, hit the man's knife hand, and then tried to thump him again; unfortunately, he wasn't used to close-quarter combat in heels and a dress, and nearly twisted his ankle. He stumbled, falling against the bricks. The man kicked at him, one boot catching Holmes in the meaty part of his thigh.

"Shit," Holmes said, falling back against the bricks

"You fucker–" the man said, looking for the knife.

The man was bending down to pick up the knife when a red gogo boot caught him behind the knee, and then a baton smacked into the side of his head. Irene pepper sprayed the guy while he was down, then yanked his wrists behind his back. Holmes jumped into the fray, fumbling a pair of handcuffs out of his bra (seriously, they needed to put more pockets in dresses), and tightening them around the man's wrists.

"Stupid bastard. You're under arrest." Holmes muttered, then was completely distracted from telling the perp his rights by Watson, who went running past the three of them.

He knealt down to check on the unlucky victim, who was still curled up on the ground, groaning. "It's all right," Watson said. "I'm a doctor." Then, to Holmes and Irene: "Better call an ambulance. I think his ribs might be cracked."

"Have you got your phone on you?" Irene asked Holmes. He looked around for his purse, but had dropped it sometime after he and Watson...

"Here," a new voice said. Mary handed Irene her phone, then looked down at the perp, moaning on the ground. "God, what a prick. I hope you get raped in prison, asshole."

Mary's lipstick, Holmes noticed, was smeared. So was Irene's, in a remarkably similar pattern. He suddenly became aware of some sticky gloss on his upper lip and chin. He couldn't quite see Watson's face, but he'd be willing to bet there'd be some telltale fushcia smears on his face too. Fucking hell.

He looked at Mary, who was looking at him with an annoyingly unreadable expression. "You two should go home," he said to her. "I think this party's about to be shut down. And we're going to have a few hours' worth of paperwork."

"I'm not sure–" Watson began.

"No, he's right, John," Mary said. Then her gaze moved to Irene, who was still crouched on the perp's back, one of her heels digging into his kidneys. "But you two should come over when you're finished. We'll make you breakfast."

Holmes watched as some weird, telepathic conversation seemed to unfold between them, words carried by an arched eyebrow, a raised chin. "I'm not sure–" he started.

"Oh god, that'd be amazing," Irene said. "I'll bring some Bloody Mary mix."

"Wait," Holmes said.

"What?" Watson said.

 _"P-P-P-POKERFACE!"_ Lady Gaga shouted. Holmes shuddered.

"We'll be there around eight," Irene said.

"We will?" he asked dumbly.

"We will."

* * *

The next few hours passed, an agonizing grind of legal processing and paperwork. The highlight was a shower in the precinct's washroom, wanking off to the memory of Watson's skin under his mouth. Of course, this was followed by a dismal drop in his mood, realizing that his one chance with Watson had probably been ruined by the shit-stain he'd dragged into Booking.

Fuck it. Holmes turned off the shower, changed into his spare suit, and went off to scrounge up some coffee before the debriefing.

* * *

"You look like hell," Irene said when they finally stumbled out of the precinct, making their way to Irene's car. The morning was too bright, spitefully cheerful. It made Holmes want to walk in front of a bus, if only to cure his headache.

"I feel like someone's wrapped my brain in barbed wire," Holmes said.

"Ditto. We'll feel better after breakfast, though."

Holmes wanted to slam his head against Irene's Prius. "You're not serious."

"I'm always serious about free breakfasts."

"I don't want breakfast. I want to sleep. Sleep for a month."

"Since when do you turn down a free breakfast? Especially when you can oggle Watson as he drinks his coffee?"

"Since now. I don't want breakfast. Unless the pancakes are laced with Valium and there's nitrous oxide for dessert."

Irene looked at him. "What's got your panties in a twist, Shercock?"

She still hadn't unlocked the car, and Holmes felt stupidly stuck, fingers on the handle, waiting on her whim. "You're only doing this because you want to fuck Watson's girlfriend. That's not on."

Irene arched an eyebrow at him and unlocked the door. "She invited us to breakfast. Just breakfast. Not sex."

"You do want to sleep with her, though. You're not even denying it."

"Why should I? Unlike some people, I don't bother with denial."

Holmes blinked as Irene threw her stuff – purse, badge, gogo boots, gold lame pants – into the backseat. "Meaning what?" he asked. "You think that I'm...?"

"As guilty of making out with someone's significant other as I am," she said, pulling out into the early traffic. "Or are you going to tell me that some other drag queen wearing Frantic Fuschia lipstick was getting down with the doctor?"

Holmes slumped down in his seat, looking anywhere but at the road. Irene was a terrifying driver under the best of circumstances.

"I'm not denying that," he muttered. "But, but that was just an experiment under a specific set of circumstances, unlikely to be repeated, and definitely not something I really want to deal with over breakfast."

Irene was silent for a moment, driving. "It's just breakfast, Sherlock. Nothing more, nothing less. Just food and coffee with friends." She spoke with finality, and closed the conversation by turning on the radio.

 _"STICKS AND STONES AND BLEEDING BONES,"_ MIA warned. It seemed rather ominous.

"I'd still rather sleep," he said.

"Would you quit whining about it? Everything's going to be fine."

He didn't quite believe her, but he comforted himself with the thought that if this situation did become a monumental cock-up, he could blame Irene.

* * *

He hadn't been to Mary's apartment before. He'd expected it to be more yellow, for some reason. Bright, cheery, canary-colored walls and overstuffed chairs. Afghans. Victorian prints. The smell of baked goods perfuming the air.

The air instead smelled like bacon and coffee, and Mary's apartment was outfitted in comforting blues and greens. She had a few pieces of art on the walls, and a series of framed pictures of what Holmes presumed were her family, friends, and the kids she worked with.

True to her word, Mary had served up a decent morning-after feast; potatoes, eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, toast, and bloody marys and screwdrivers. Mary and Irene were chatting away to his left, which left Holmes nothing to do but drink his screwdriver and surreptitiously stare at Watson. Watson was mostly listening to the women's conversation – which had turned to giggling about Britain's Got Talent (which he hated, since for the most part, Britain didn't) – but every so often his eyes would drift over to Holmes' face. Holmes made sure to be looking elsewhere when that happened.

Last night was starting to seem like a dream. Or a delirium. Had he really tried to give Watson a blowjob in an alley while wearing a purple frock and listening to Jay Sean? Even as he thought it, some kind of current of lust ran through him again, remembering the taste of Watson's skin, the feeling of him hard and wanting.

"Holmes?" Mary said.

Holmes, startled out of his reverie, spilled his screwdriver on his shirt. "Sorry?" he said, grabbing his napkin.

"We wanted to run something by you."

"What is it?" he asked, trying to get orange juice out of his sleeve.

"How do you feel about swinging?"

"What?" he asked, still patting his sleeve.

"Swinging? Polyamory?"

Holmes dropped his napkin. Then he leaned forward, placed his hands in front of him, and said, "What?"

Watson was blushing. Irene was smirking. and Mary was looking far too calm. "Well," she said. "John and I are both bisexual, as you figured out last night, and neither of us really want to stop having sex with other people–"

 _Two serial cheaters walk into a bar together,_ Holmes thought absurdly, but couldn't for the life of him think of a punchline.

"–But neither of us really want to go out and just fuck around indiscriminately either."

Holmes could not believe that he had just heard Mary use the word "fuck." He snuck a look at Watson, who was blushing (very attractively, admittedly) and toying with his fork.

"So you want me..."

"Actually, I want..." Her eyes slid to where Irene was sitting, smiling. Holmes had the suspicion that the two of them had worked all this out the night before, or possibly telepathically while he was sucking down his screwdriver and sneaking glances at Watson.

"But, you know, it's only fair if there's equal participation for John. Or opportunities, I guess, to participate."

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander, after all," Irene added.

"Piss off, Irene," Holmes snarled. Mary looked shocked, but Irene just laughed.

"Maybe you should sleep on it," she said, still smiling at him. He had a venomous reply on the tip of his tongue when Watson spoke quietly.

"That's not a bad idea. I'll take you home," he said. "If you want."

The whole table went quiet.

Holmes wiped his mouth with his napkin. He could feel a tremor beginning in his hand and suppressed it. "I can find my own way."

"I know," Watson said. "But let me drive you."

Holmes sighed. "Fine, okay."

* * *

The radio in Watson's car was tuned to some classical station, obviously for Holmes' benefit – Watson's own tastes were more modern. They drove in silence for several minutes, aside from the music. Holmes could feel himself nodding off, even as his brain kept shouting at him to say something, do something.

"Look, Holmes-" Watson said, startling him awake. "Nothing has to change, not at work and, and not between us. We, we can just forget about last night and this morning and just– just, I don't know, go on with our lives."

 _He stutters when he talks about sex. Correction; sex with me,_ some distant part of Holmes observed. Holmes shifted, forced himself to sit up straighter in the passenger seat.

"Let me see," he said, "if I have correctly grasped the situation. Mary would like to have sex with other people, particularly women, particularly Irene, but would also like to continue her committed relationship with you. To assuage her guilt, she has come up with the idea that you want your relationship with me to include some kind of sexual dimension. Irene, as usual, is just an unscrupulous slut, which is nothing new and shouldn't be considered a moral judgment from me, only she seems to be encouraging Mary to encourage you to start a sexual relationship with me, regardless of whether either of us are interested in it."

"Are you not interested then?" Watson said.

"That's not the point!" Holmes hissed.

"What is the point, then?" Watson asked.

Something about his words struck Holmes; the anxious tone, the tense posture, the way his hands clenched the wheel. All Holmes' fatigue fell away, and he took a breath. He had several epiphanies between the inhalation and its release. "This wasn't her idea," he said. "You want it just as much as she does."

Watson nodded, blushing again.

"How long have you wanted me?" Holmes asked.

Watson twitched while shifting, grinding the gears. It was the physical equivalent of a stutter, and it spoke volumes.

"A long time." Holmes mused. "But you didn't do anything about it."

"I didn't want to, to fuck up our friendship."

"Mm. You are a lousy boyfriend," Holmes said, thinking of how many women had passed into and out of Watson's life the last few years; the three months he'd been with Mary had been quite the anomaly.

"Like you're any better," Watson said, eyes flashing. "I'd follow you into hell, Holmes, but dating you would drive me crazy."

They drove in silence for a while. Holmes didn't speak again until they were only a block away from his apartment. "So," he said. "Is that it? We can just start having sex?"

"Well... you might want to wait until we're out of the car first." Watson's voice was cool, but he stalled the car when parking in front of Holmes' flat. The music continued playing, some uninspired pianist tiptoeing through Beethoven. Holmes reached over and shut it off.

This had been easier last night, when he'd been drunk and wearing what felt like a half-inch of makeup shellacked onto his face. Now he just felt... naked. He pondered just making a run for it. As unsatisfying as his fantasies about his friend had been, they'd certainly been safer than the proposition that now loomed in front of him. "I need..." Holmes started, then trailed off.

Watson's face was very close. Holmes could smell the coffee on his breath, the aftershave on his cheeks. It wasn't that hard to let himself close the distance between their mouths.

"Invite me in?" Watson said, after a moment.

"Yes," Holmes said, without hesitation. And then, because he could, he said it again; _"Yes."_


End file.
